


Check Please

by Wewheresobeautiful



Series: Orgasum Wars [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom Sherlock, Dom/sub Undertones, Erectile Dysfunction, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, John watsons dad is a dick, M/M, Making Out, Not Canon Compliant, Sub John, Very brief noncon touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wewheresobeautiful/pseuds/Wewheresobeautiful
Summary: After the blow job from heaven John moves in. Slowly he gets drawn into the weird World for Sherlock Holmes but he won't make a move. Not forgetting the amazing...Just sought of ignoring it? And Sherlock dosent seem to mind.Sherlock minds. Oh he minds very much. So he comes up with a plan. And very good plan if he did say so himself, now if only he could execute it without ruining their friendship. He's not very good with people after all.





	1. Moving in

He still didn't really know what Sherlock did. He brought in the strangest stuff to the flat, from animal parts to newspapers to some poor woman's knickers and lighter fluid. He knew there was something about the morgue at Bart's because he had met the lovely woman that worked there and put up with all of Sherlock's mayhem. Molly, that was it. Poor girl, he should buy her something for her birthday at least, now he just had to find out when that was. 

It had only been a few months since ‘game day’ as John liked to call it but so much had changed! After their curry night Sherlock had asked him to move in, promising that the rent would be cheap, he could have his own room and that he definitely wasn't a stalker just very good at observing. Then came the kissing. John liked the kissing, he enjoyed Sherlock's weight on him and the feel of his lips, he enjoyed it very much. But not enough. Sherlock had started reaching down and there was nothing to grab. John left soon after that, promising that he would get back to Sherlock on the tenancy situation and he did. Not until a week later though. He didn't understand it, his cock was fine and then it was not, he knew Sherlock knew why and that was fine but he didn't like it. In fact he hated it. There he was with a stunning guy on top of him, grinding and Sucking on all the right parts and there was nothing going on, not even a stirring. He brought it up with his therapist, she said it was part of adjusting back to civilization, it didn't help. Then his rent was due and he panicked, Sherlock had won the prize not him, he was still as poor as a church mouse but then he remembered Sherlock's offer and told the landlord where to shove it. 

All he owned fit into one suitcase. That was a bit depressing. Sherlock was true to his word, he helped him set up his own room, well he helped him carry up his bag and threw some sheets towards the bed before running downstairs tapping on his phone and introduced him to the landlady who promised him any time of the week he could get the rent in would be just fine with her and not to sweat it if he missed a week. It was better, much better. He appreciated the way Sherlock didn't bring up the elephant in the room and never initiated anything with John beyond pushing him out of the way to grab some form of organ or paperwork from the fridge. He had his own seat, he didn't really know how that happened, they just both sought of picked an armchair each and settled in like old friends. 

He did really want to know what Sherlock did though. 

One morning he had the joy of a sleepless night followed by a frantic flatmate and a backed up bath tub. He hoped it was just pig blood in there, but knowing Sherlock those hopes were fruitless. He had managed to get the pigs blood out while Sherlock frantically rattled off a bunch of nonsense from the kitchen before grabbing his phone and running downstairs and away to go knows where. And John was up to his elbows in pigs blood. 

——————————————

He loved living with John. It felt right, it felt perfect. He was just the man to bounce ideas off and nothing fazed him. Not even the cows kidneys left in Tupperware next to his gallon of milk and plastic wrapped sausages. It also helped that he made a good cup of tea and loved to cook and clean. He was unpacked in two days with John around, something he had been putting off for months. His brother was happy to, the doctor checked out, nothing too exciting and he seemed to be proving Sherlock with some form of nutrition and company. 

He wanted more, oh did Sherlock want more. He wanted him so bad that night but then John got self conscious about his soft penis and ran off. He blew through his whole cocaine supply in that weeks wait. He didn't want to lose him. He knew the doctor wasn't straight, why couldn't he admit it to himself? People could be so narrow minded sometimes. So he put up with the brushing of shoulders and hands on the walkway, the glimpses of John's silhouette through the frosty glass of the bathroom door. He had lost count of the amount of times he had pleasured himself to the image of John Watson. Fingers in his mouth imagining that same perfect cock sitting there to be admired, soft or hard it was amazing. He needed him so bad. Soon thoughts of John Watson laying out across his black silk sheets, naked and vulnerable as he stared up at Sherlock with such admiration replaced his injections, his cocaine supply ran out and he didn't use the prize money to replenish it. He didn't even cash the check. 

He would make John his, he could manage that. John needed a commander, needed the discipline, his therapist wasn't going to provide that included with her rates. Yes, he would provide for John, give back so much of what Sherlock was taking. He fixed his cock before he could do it again, make John see what he needed, what he craved. Oh he would have to be clever about this, John could never catch on or the whole thing would be ruined. A game of cat and mouse.

And Sherlock loves games. 

 

——————————————

He needed a job. The rent was cheap and Sherlock had given him some kind of card to buy the weekly shop and other various things Sherlock was adamant he needed for 'experiments’. But John needed more, he didn't have luxurys he had necessities. He still wanted to go to the gym and he was in desperate need for some new underwear. He didn't know how he got so many burn holes in every single pair but he had his suspicions. He still had the numbers from some of his University friends. Sarah always talked about how she wanted to start her own practice some day, maybe he would have shot there. 

He got the interview and she had changed so much. It had been so long since they had seen each other and she was beautiful, he couldn't help but flirt. So he was a slag, who cares it was just who he was. He got the job with no guilt that it was due to their relationship. He knew Sarah wasn't like that, if there was someone better they would have got it, she was not a fan of favoritism. He thought about asking her on a date. He could use getting back in the game. She was nice and pretty, she didn't care about his past and she knew a lot of it. It could work, he could date.

That night he let his mind wander down a path that he hadn't for a long time. He thought about Sarah, about her mouth, her eyes her body. He cupped his cock over his pajama bottoms, it was still soft, just laying there in his hand. He could do this. He was not going to let the only erection he gained this year be from a man. Though truth be told he wasn't just any man. It was Sherlock. The most amazing, brilliant, madman he had every meet. That day was still implanted in his mind, his mouth, his eyes, the soft perfect curls. He was amazing. John never did return his favour. He was not gay. He had to keep telling himself that. Not gay just enjoyed a blowjob off a man and had a steamy makeout session after before moving in with said man. It was weird. This whole thing was weird. His cock didn't move, not even the stirring of arousal so he gave up, curled himself around his pillow and went to sleep only to be woken up two hours later by a nightmare. He needed to join a gym.


	2. Fish and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realised how short this chapter is. It looked longer on my phone I promise! I'll try to make it longer for the next one!

The plan was going well so far. Sherlock had mixed in his own underwear with John's to raise less suspicion. He only wore silk and John only wore cotton, he would argue the need for comparison if John asked. 

John didn't ask.

He just got a job. Sherlock burnt his underwear, made him go commando and he retaliated by getting a job. He honestly didn't understand this man. But that's what made John Watson so fascinating. Sherlock was one to enjoy the predictably of people, it made them ever so easy to capture when out with Lestrange. But John Watson was a puzzle. He never complained about anything, he just accepted what was happening around him. He never asked questions even when Sherlock would ask for lambs brains and battery's during John's daily trips to the shops to stock up the empty cupboards in the kitchen. 

Oh John Watson, he would unravel you. 

——————————————

John was on his way home when he got the text. He didn't really feel like answering. His legs hurt from the time he spend on them at the surgery, his head was aching due to the enthusiastic toddler with an earache he had just treated and his cock was sore from rubbing on the inseam of his trousers the whole day because he had forgotten to replace his ruined underwear and had gone commando (again). But he took his phone out anyway to see a message from Sherlock on his phone. He should replace that too, it was so outdated. 

6:50pm received   
Get a cab. I will pay. In need of assistance back at the flat - SH 

Great. Just great. Probably another evening scrubbing the sulfur smell out of the carpet before Mrs Hudson found out. He got a cab anyway. He needed a rest, his legs where tired and it was nice not to have to walk home in the overcast drizzle of London. Sherlock didn't even come down to pay the man, apparently he had already done so. John had no idea how since he picked the cabbie at random, he didn't question it. When he got into the flat there was the distinct smell of frying. What the hell was he doing now? 

He was expecting there to be some form of animal by-product in some form of makeshift cookware when he tentatively turned his head around the corner and into the kitchen but instead there was Sherlock, in a dressing gown, an old ratty shirt, striped pajama bottoms and bare feet lightly frying whiting in butter and garlic. 

“Sherlock? What-” John was speechless, the kitchen table was set for two, mashed potatoes and a fresh garden salad in bowls, all ready to be scooped onto the matching white China plates. 

“Sit down John, I'll be ready in just a second" he didn't even turn his head to address John, just vaguely waved the spatula in the direction of the table. John wasn't going to question it. This was the first time he had seen Sherlock make a meal, make anything really in the kitchen that wouldn't give him some form of food poisoning. 

“there's a beautiful bottle of Pinot Grigio that I have been airing since your department from work, it should be just about ready to drink now if you'd like to pour us each a glass” he still didn't turn around, instead he flipped the fish and lightly basted the exposed side in the pool of butter in the pan. There was a bottle on the table, it had a ribbon tied around it and the cork was popped but otherwise it was a normal bottle of wine. There was two glasses next to it, he poured them both halfway and placed each one next to the plates. It only took a few minutes before Sherlock was bringing the pan over to the table and dishing out three fillets onto each plate and returning the pan to the stove top. The wine was amazing, paired perfectly with the fish which was light and flakey, the favour of the butter and garlic not overpowering the natural taste of the fish itself. Before John knew it he was on his third glass of wine, Sherlock still sipping his first.

“Where did you get this from? It's not like you to do the shop” John said as Sherlock cleared away the plates and topped John's glass up. 

“A client of mine. Her father owns a winery down in the south of England while her husband is a fish monger. She was very grateful for my assistant” his voice was so nice, so calming and deep. John felt his eyes fall heavy in sleep as he slipped his now full glass. A fishmonger and winery? That was... Something. 

“What do you do?” the question had been burning in John's mind since he met the man. The flat was amazing, his clothes were perfect. Who was Sherlock Holmes? He felt like he had moved in with stranger but also a close friend. He knew nothing about this man but it didn't feel like that. He was comfortable here, at home, he liked living with Sherlock Holmes but he didn't know why. 

“Tomorrow, John. I was going to ask for your help tonight but it can wait. I can see you've had a stressful day, I will wake you in the morning with the details” John opened his eyes from where they had closed as he took in Sherlock's voice only to see his flatmate handing him a folded set of silk pajamas, JW embroidered on the shirt pocket. 

“I have changed your sheets, the cotton count you had was very primitive. I have also replaced the underwear I ruined, boxer briefs if my assumption is correct. You've been buying them a size too big for far too long. Go, change, I'll explain in the morning" then he placed his large hand on the back of John's neck and gave a soft squeeze. He couldn't hold back his soft purr of content that bubbled from his throat. So he nodded and went to his room, changed into his far too fancy pajamas and went to sleep in his egyptian cotton sheets. He would think about all this tomorrow. Just as Sherlock said. Explained all tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this entire thing because I wasn't happy with where it was going so I hope this is better! 
> 
> I'm writing two chapters at a time so the fact that I posted this means that chapter 3 has been written!! But it won't be posted till I've written chapter 4. so that's my plan I say as if I have a plan. I have no idea where this is going. 
> 
> So enjoy I guess


	3. Scotland Yard

He awoke to the sound of people down stairs. And Sherlock was shouting. Sherlock didn't shout. He was always calm, collected, maybe a bit loud at times but he never shouted. John shot out of bed, finding a thick cotton robe on the hook on the back of his door, the same JW embroidered in the pocket. It was tarten just like his chair. He would have a word with Sherlock later. He slipped on his slippers and the robe, still in the middle of tieing it as he reached the landing to see the flat filled with police officers, some in uniform some in casual attire.

“If you had come to me sooner perhaps your body count would be lower!” Sherlock was shouting at some middle aged man with pepper grey hair and blue eyes who simply rubbed his forehead and groaned in annoyance at Sherlock's yelling. 

“We only got the case a week ago! How could we have possible brought you in sooner? There wasn't evidence it was a serial killer till last night! So tell me how I was supposed to bring you in sooner! Just help us now before another poor woman dies!” they didn't notice John at all, so caught up in their shouting match as the rest of the team seemed to rifle through their flat, making all kinds of mess that John knew he would be the one cleaning up later. 

“Oh please Lestrange, you know the victim's gender doesn't play into it. Don't be so thick! He picks them at random even you can see that! If you would just seek my help without having to destroy my property we could have finished this a week ago!” the man just glared at Sherlock till he seemed to shrink away slightly. John was impressed. Sherlock was still in his silk robe but now the pajamas and shirt had been replaced by grey suit pants and a white button up top. He was still barefoot however, toes digging into the soft carpet as if holding his ground. Then the man, Lestrange, spotted him. Then so did Sherlock. 

“Um morning. Mind me asking why half of Scotland Yard is in our flat?” Sherlock's eyes looked so vulnerable in the moment he turned to look at John, dressed in the clothes he had provided, still warm from sleep, hair untamed and messy. Then he straightened up and walked to John's side. 

“I will explain later, I promise. Just please return to bed John. I will retrieve you in no less than five minutes” he tried to place his hand on the back of John's neck but he stepped away, heading for the kitchen. 

“Would anyone like a cup of tea since I will be sharing breakfast as well as the flat with ten or so more people than normal?” John said not looking at anyone as he filled the old copper kettle and placed it on the stove top to boil. He started making toast and jam, missing Sherlock's pleading look towards Lestrange who then whistled and lead the group of police officers out of their flat in one long row. 

“Noon, my office. If you're not there you don't get the case, deal?” he could basically sense Sherlock's passive aggressive nod as he buttered the fresh toast and spread on a thick layer plum jam. 

“Fine, but John will accompany me” John's ears peeked up at the mention of his name. Slowly steeping his tea bag in the hot water.

“Who even is he Sherlock? You go off my radar for a month then show back up with a new flat and some random flatmate and God knows how far off the wago-” 

“He's a doctor, army specifically. He joins me” he could feel the determination coming off Sherlock in waves, making his spine shiver as he retrieved the milk to add a splash to his strong cup of tea. He could hear the defeated sigh from the older man before he heard him walking down stairs without another word. When John was sure it was only the two of them left he headed to his chair with his toast hanging from his mouth and his cup of tea on both hands. He sat down with a sigh and started to take large bites from his toast while his tea cooled. 

“Mind explaining where I'm going this afternoon?” Sherlock took a seat across from him, tucking his knees up to his chest as he looked at John over his knees. 

“Scotland Yard. I was hoping I would have time this morning to explain it all but it seems Lestrange had different ideas” he looked at Sherlock over the brim of his glass as he took a long sip of his tea, feeling far more awake. He placed the cup back down, waiting for Sherlock to continue.   
“It's my job. I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard as well as private clients. Last night the wine and the fish was from a private client. She believed her son had robbed them to fuel his weed addiction. I prove it was in fact the stepmother who, upon the husband reporting her for domestic abuse, took the money and fled the country. They were very thankful. I predict that if left she would have moved her frustrations to the grandson” John's eyes widened. Sherlock seemed so composed about the topic, talking about such a situation as if it was normal. He took another long sip of his tea. 

“So, the serial killer? Is that something you do often?” He folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back. He wanted to know. Now he did. No one to blame but himself for this madness he was now exposed to. 

“Almost exclusively. I only take the cases that interest me. That take brain work and logic to understand and unravel. The domestic abuse case was….an exception” Sherlock let his legs uncurl only to lay his feet flat onto the carpet, leaning forward so his arms rested on his knees. 

“You don't seem shocked. Most people react negatively knowing that I seek out serial killers for the fun of it. I often don't get paid, you should be aware of this. Correction I often don't ask for a fee if I feel the case was mentally stimulating enough or in special circumstances” John just nodded as Sherlock scanned his body, waiting for a reaction. So John finished his tea, mirrored Sherlock's posture and locked eyes with his mad flatmate. 

“Ok, fair enough. A job's a job. I just don't understand why you need me” Sherlock smiled at that, leaning back against the leather chair, arms on the rests, fingers and toes massaging whatever material they touched. His silk robe spread out artfully around his body. 

“You're a doctor, an army doctor. You've just returned from the war and having trouble being away from the action. You are a good shot from how you hold your hands, well I should say you were. Your hands shake now but it's not nerves. You need adrenalin, I need a medical opinion” John could help but smile at Sherlock's wide smirk. His face lit up in self satisfaction as he read John like a book. He should be annoyed, should be insulted by the fact that Sherlock just basically told him he was a soldier and nothing else, that he needed the risk of death to function. But he didn't. He felt light, free, understood for the first time in his life. He smiled back, feeling almost giddy. 

“I'm going for a shower. Have something to eat. I'll be ready in an hour. 

——————————————

Sherlock was amazed. John Watson. Such a mystery of a man. Most people told him to piss off when he analysed them, he had a knack for finding soft spots and prodding them but John had smiled so warmly at him and told him to eat, told him to take care of himself. He accepted his 'job’ with no questions, with no insults, no exclamations of 'Freak’ or 'Psychopath’. He took a shower and got ready. Sherlock was fascinated by John Watson. 

An hour later John emerged from his room dressed in a simple white button down, loose jeans and that horrible cream jumper that he loved so much. He feet were in covered thick grey socks and brown practical shoes. He smiled at Sherlock and grabbed his black jacket and keys as he nodded towards Sherlock's bare feet and ever present robe. 

“You going like that?” Sherlock looked down and frowned. Right get dressed, have food. That was what he was meant to be doing while John was getting ready. 

“I was thinking. Sit down I'll be ready soon” John smiled at him, it made his stomach feel fuzzy. He wasn't a fan of that feeling but when John was the cause he didn't seem to mind.


	4. Pink!

John didn't know how he got here. They were in Lestrange office looking at three files on different suspicious deaths. All classed as suicide until the last. Some woman in a pink coat laying on her front, the words Rache scratched into the floorboards. Then Sherlock was shouting about not being at the scene of the crime, having to rely on someone called Anderson and then he was at the morgue meeting Molly face to face for the first time with his hand wrist deep in some poor woman's stomach lining. He didn't even know why he had to do this. Molly had done the autopsy, she was about to sew the woman back together and start the embalming and for some weird reason he trusted her. He had nothing to base this woman on but a few late night phone calls telling him Sherlock would be staying the night and her hand written paperwork but he felt like she was a good person and good at her job. He could see her work, it was right in front of his face and it was good. Her incisions were perfect and her examination was more thorough than it had to be for a suicide case making the forensic team's job that much easier. It was how he would have done it and he liked that. They were looking at him with so much expectation. Proving his need to Lestrange and Sherlock, giving a good first impression to Molly. He could feel the pressure on his shoulders but he kept up with what he was doing, moving to the throat and hands. 

“When's your birthday?” He asked glancing up at Molly. She looked behind her, flustered as he pointed her gloved hands towards herself. John smiled and nodded. 

“Oh, May the 5th. Why do you ask?” she looked so flustered, he could almost see Sherlock rolling his eyes behind him. 

“Was just wondering the other day. Now I know I guess” he said with a shrug before standing up and pulling off his gloves and placing them in the biohazard bin before moving to the sink to wash his hands in antibacterial soap to his elbows. He turned towards Lestrange and Sherlock as he dried his hands on paper towels.

“Well?” Lestrange had his hands in his pockets, clearly exhausted from having to deal with Sherlock's insistence that John look over the body at least since they had ruined the crime scene by not calling him in sooner. 

“Asphyxiation. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. No alcohol in her blood stream or stomach. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs. The same as the autopsy report. Molly did a very good job so I really don't know why I'm here" he threw the paper towels into the same bin and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Sherlock.   
“Very good John I did hope you would go deeper however. You saw the photos what's your analysis doctor” he wanted to smack that smug smile off Sherlock's face as he locked eyes with John. Ok, he wanted his opinion so he was going to get it. 

“Left handed due to the chipping on the nails, even with the level of manicure she has it still would not withstand carving into wood grain. Married due to the way the finger has swelled during rigor mortis but possibly not for long as she hasn't had time to fully outgrow the ring size. In shape but doesn't work out, weak arches in her feet so on her feet a lot but in inappropriate shoes, possibly an office. Is that enough for you? Because I honestly think the autopsy was thorough enough that my input wasn't really needed” he moved from where he was scanning the woman's body to shot a smug look towards his flatmate only to find Sherlock's face bright and genuinely happy. The smug look fell from his face as a his cheeks started to warm under the praised look, face falling into a soft smile. 

“Good, very good John” he felt his spine tingle at the praise as Sherlock walked over and brushed his hand softly down his arm on his way to the autopsy table. 

“I mean you left out the most important parts but overall you did well for a beginner. Now what you should have seen was-” he could feel the smile splitting his face as he listened to Sherlock analysis the body in the same way he had done to John himself. It should have felt weird, wrong being dissected the same way as a stiffening corpse but he wasn't, he was amazed. Sherlock was in his own little world as he scanned the body from head to toe, downing some gloves to next analyse the woman's possessions in the box at her feet while Lestrange took to his phone to call in a search for a pink suitcase. He was too caught up in Sherlock's enthusiasm to know why that was important. Then he was being dragged into a cab, he didn't know why or how he got there but Sherlock was the happiest he had seen him since they meet. He was typing lightening fast on his phone as the cab drove them to some abandoned building in the middle of South London. 

“What are we doing here again?” Sherlock ignored him as he threw a few pounds at the cabbie and ran off down the sketchy looking alleyway to start digging in an industrial sized bin. 

“The suitcase John!” the bin was large enough that only Sherlock's head was seen as he smiled widely at john, hair curly and filled with various vegetable scraps that John really didn't want to think about. 

“What about the suitcase? I thought Lestrange was on that" he didn't get a response for a good few minutes while he heard Sherlock rooting around in the bin only to have him pop his head back up, now with a Banana peel on the shoulder of his Belstaff holding a travel sized bright Barbie pink suitcase in his hands. 

“Pink!” 

——————————————

The night progressed into them sharing a table at Angelo's with a candelabra between them as Sherlock kept his focus on both the street and John eating his meal. He had asked Angelo to bring a large portion of whatever John ordered in the hope of fattening the man up. By his predictions John was at least three pounds off a healthy weight for his height and age. 

“Do you want any? They definitely give you value for money at this place” he dragged his eyes away from the cars slowly driving past to look at John as he held out his fork to Sherlock, already loaded with a healthy serve of pasta and sauce. 

“I don't eat during cases. Digestion slows down my thinking” he could see the slow defeated look I'm John's eyes begin to form before they were overcome with worry. He scanned Sherlock's body, what he could see of it over the table and he could basically head the cogs turning in John's mind. 

“You'd be really helping me out” Sherlock tried to turn back towards the window but he couldn't take his eyes away from John. His face full of determination. Quietly challenging him like a parent threatening to withhold dessert until dinner was finished. He could make an exception he supposed. So he lent forward across the table, not taking the fork from John and instead allowing him to hold the mouth full as Sherlock slowly took the fork into his mouth, closing his eyes for a second as he pulled the pasta away from the prongs, cheeks slightly hollowed as the silver of the fork slipped from his lips. He smiled as he sat up, chewing with satisfaction as John's face fell flustered for a second before he composed himself. Clearing is throat and redirecting his focus back on his meal, twirling his next bite onto the now empty cutlery. 

“Ok, good, thanks. That's...Yeah, good” Sherlock turned back to the window with a satisfied smirk, scanning the cars as the drove past in silence. Then a cab stopped and he rushed out of his seat and John followed him. 

The night ended with them both laughing in the middle of the street, out of breath and holding one of Lestrange’s badges in his hand. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes of John. He looked relaxed, free. His laugh was hypnotic as was his soft smile as he looked up into the sky taking in the life Sherlock had dragged him into over the period of seven hours. His plan was progressing well.


	5. James and the bullet

John was ten when he started realising that his Dad wasn't the superhero he thought he was. His mum picked him and his sister up from school and he saw the bruises on her wrists when she turned the wheel. He went to ask his mum about them but his sister gave him a look, staring him down till he backed into his seat and stayed quiet for the rest of the trip. 

When he was 16 Harry came out. He didn't see her for a year after that. He would have left with her but he needed to stay home to protect his mum. She didn't fight back, ever. He saw her beaten black a blue for most of his life and she just took it, again and again. He held his Dad off Harry when she showed them a photo of her girlfriend. He knew for certain if he had not stepped in she would have died that night. 

So when he joined the army and meet James he almost ran into the gunfire unarmed. He could never let his family know. Not even Harry. She might let it slip when she was drunk one night and Dad would find out and he'd rather die on the field than by his father's hands. He held it back for so many years but he had slip ups. Those were tough nights. Then he got the letter that his Dad had died and he felt a weight lift off his shoulders. That night he had marched into James’ tent and had a night for guilt free passion for the first time since they meet. Then he woke up the next morning and threw up. His father's voice was still there in the back of his head berating him, calling him a faggot, a weakling, a failure. So he left, ran back into battle completely unprepared. His bulletproof vest left behind as he ran off into the field to attempt to save the poor man's leg that had been blown off by a grenade. He was the enemy, but truth be told John never saw themselves as the good guys. Then he heard someone shouting in Arabic behind him but he kept working, wrapping and cutting. He was going to save this leg, he wasn't useless he wasn't a failure he was a doctor and a damn good one and he was going to save this guy's leg if it killed him. And it almost did. 

He felt the bullet rip through him and insert into the man's stomach. Then he was gone and he felt two sets of hands gripping his shoulders and dragging him off the field of fire and into the medical tent, having his gear ripped off and medical grade alcohol poured into the wound. It took him two months to get over the infection. But it was touch and go for a while. They let him out for his father's funeral, strapped to wheelchair and wheeled around the cemetery by a nurse holding a bottle of liquid morphine. The scaring was the worst. He could take the pain, the recovery, the goddam catheter but the scarring was extensive, like an albino spider web traveling from his collarbone to his first rib and all down his upper back. It was a mark his father would love. His mistake forever etched into his skin. He should never had let his feeling for James develop, he should have pushed it deep down, be a man and suck it up. Go find a nice woman to fuck and leave it be but he had let it go, he let himself enjoy the company of another man and he got shot for it. Taken away from a job he loved, unable to save a man in his own foolish haste and now his leg was busted and his hand shook. He couldn't even be a surgeon anymore. He had lost his worth. Then he meet Sherlock and his worth came back. He was still a doctor, an army doctor in fact. He chased after criminals and shot with a steady hand. He wasn't proud of what he did that night but he wasn't exactly upset over it. But what happened that night, when they walked home because John wasn't a big fan of cabbies at that present moment, when they crossed that threshold into their apartment and John made tea that they didn't end up drinking. 

——————————————

Sherlock continued to be amazed by John Watson. He was going to take that pill, he knew it was the right one and he was going to prove himself correct but John stepped in, made him not have to prove himself. When they walked home he started to think about what John had done for him, how he risked his quiet life to join Sherlock in this weird dangerous madness he lead. And John, after shooting a man in cold blood for a man he had known for not even a month came home and made tea. He couldn't help it, he didn't want to ruin the plan but he needed John Watson, he needed to thank him in some way. So he pulled off his coat and jacket, walked behind John as he scooped loose tea leaves onto the kettle as it rested in the stove and reached up to grab the mugs from the top cupboard, ensuring his whole torso was pressing against John's back as he did so. He lingered for slightly longer than necessary just so he could feel how John tensed up then slowly relaxed into feel of Sherlock behind him. John Watson was an amazing man and Sherlock would forever be amazed at his unpredictable nature as he pulled down two plain white porcelain mugs and placed them on the counter besides the burners, ensuring to lean over John's shoulder, face dangerously close to John's in a way that was obviously not about Sherlock's lack of understanding when it comes to personal space but more along the lines of intimate when John Watson pushed him against the fridge and kissed the living daylights out of him. It wasn't loving and soft like Sherlock thought John would kiss but aggressive, passionate, more lust than love. But Sherlock would take it, he wanted John since the day he meet him, being allowed to suck his cock was a gift and he was so grateful so he let John use him, grab his shirt and tilt his head to where he wanted it. Sherlock happily looped his fingers through John's belt loops to ground him as John bit and sucked on his lips, exploring Sherlock's mouth till he was satisfied and moved down to his neck, relishing in the small sounds that Sherlock made with growls of approval. Sherlock loved this he really did but he could feel something was off, John's hands were shaking where they held tightly to the nape of his neck and his waist, his breathing was rapid in a panicked rhythm opposed to a passionate one. So he did what he really didn't want to do, he pushed John Watson away. 

“John, stop” he felt the words coming out without his brains consent. He knew it was the right thing to do the second John looked up at him, hair in disarray, lips red and shining, evidence of Sherlock right there on his lips and then John Watson burst into tears. Sherlock held him close to his chest, stroking his hair gently back from his forehead as John screamed into his shirt, tears seeping through his white shirt as he lead John to his bed, laying them both down on their sides and slowly easing John to a soft slumber. He wasn't happy with the decision, his plan was working, John was slowly breaking down whatever wall he had built in his head, allowing Sherlock in. But it was the right one to make, he knew that John would not appreciate him allowing it to go further when he wasn't in his right mind and he needed John to stay more than anything. He could live with John never returning his affection but he could not live without John Watson. So he pulled off John's shoes and jacket, tucked him under the sheets and left.

He didn't sleep. He pulled the kettle off the stove and left it for John to clean in the morning and stretched out on the sofa trying to think of one of Lestrange's old cold cases to keep his mind off John Watson sound asleep on his bed without Sherlock by his side.


	6. The hole in the floor

Sherlock was 10 when he started to talk. Up to that point he didn't see the reason too but it worried his mother and he was sick of the specialists. So he asked her for a cookie and she beamed. He basked in the praise and ate the several types of cookies that were pushed his way. That's when Sherlock learnt how to manipulate. He went to his father and asked to borrow his telescope to study different dust in different room of the house. His father's face lit up and he even helped Sherlock collect the samples. 

When he turned 16 he got into a fight. He had revealed to one of the more pig headed students beating him that day that the principal was sleeping with his mother and that's why he was being moved into the more difficult classes and hence why he felt like more of a moron than he truly was. His parents moved him to a boarding school after that. They thought he would be safer there. The upper class so upright and concerned about image that scandal and bullying would be non-existent, they were wrong. His roommate was a boy named Sebastian, he took weed when the head boys were still outside their dorm and he let Sherlock do whatever he wanted on his side of the room including dissecting lamb lungs and pig necks. When they reached 18, just about to graduate, they got drunk and Seb introduced him to heroin. That night was what Sherlock though was the best of his life at the time. They passed a bottle of expensive whiskey back and forth as Seb showed him how to inject that amazing powder into his veins. Then Seb tried to kiss him. He was high and drunk, his brain was against it but his body was not. So he kissed back and let Seb pull down his pants and cup his cock. But that's as far as he got. Sherlock batted him away, told him to back off and take another hit as he clumsily pulled his pants back into place. He never heard from Seb after that night. He was glad in some ways but in the end he had lost the closest thing he ever had to a friend. That's until he meet John Watson, and everything changed. 

Since John had joined his life Sherlock was clean for the longest he had ever been. It took a lot of effort to hide his withdrawal but luckily John was too caught up in Sherlock's experiments and work that he managed not to notice Sherlock's sweating, late night vomiting and his shaking hands. He was determined to keep it that way, he would never let John Watson know about his drug addiction, he would never know why he entered the competition and what he planned to do with the money. Sherlock Holmes would take that information to his grave if it meant keeping John In his life.

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He woke up in a strange bed, the sheets a amazingly smooth silk and the pillows so comfortable it was like resting his head on a cloud. He never wanted to wake up, he want to just bury himself deep under the duvet and sleep the day away. But he had to get up, figure out where he was. The last thing he remembered was shooting an evil cabbie. Maybe that's where he was, the evil cabbie came back to life and kidnapped him only to lay him down in the most comfortable bed in the world for the most peaceful sleep of his life. It didn't really add up did it? So he opened his eyes and turned on his back looking around the room. It was dark but clean. The walls painted a dark navy and everything made out of a light white wood. The shelves were filled with old books with no titles on the spines only authors, some John was certain he would never be able to pronounce. There were also toys, well what John would class as toys. One small teddy bear with a graduation coat and hat, an abacus made with colourful beads and some form of wooden puzzle that had been chewed on. John smiled and sat up more against the pillows, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he moved on to the other side of the room with its wardrobe, framed poster of the periodic table and the long Belstaff hanging in the back off the door.

This was Sherlock's room, what the hell was he doing in Sherlock's room? 

Oh no. He quickly threw off the covers and checked his pants were still in place, the only things missing where his jacket and shoes which were neatly folded on the bedside table. Sherlock had put him to bed but why not his own bed? Then the night all came back to him, the tea, the kissing, the crying, Sherlock holding him as he fell asleep. Oh god this was embarrassing, he had a massive repressive gay breakdown in the kitchen and all Sherlock did was put him to sleep in his own comfy bed, tuck John in and even leave him to sleep somewhere else so as to not invade his personal space. Sherlock was amazing, he didn't deserve him. 

John scrubbed his hands over his dry face, sighing as he decided to stand up and gather his things, hopefully Sherlock was out at the morgue and he could hide in his room for a few hours before work. So he picked up his shoes and coat, going to put them back on and push himself up from the perfectly soft mattress when he looked down and saw a cut out in the carpet. It was tiny, the size of a match box maybe and hardly noticeable in the dark shaggy carpet but John saw it. Maybe it was a repair, Sherlock wasn't really known for keeping his stuff intact but it was way too small for that. Sherlock would only go to the effort of repairing something if it had destroyed the entire floor of his room. So John got curious, as he often did when it came to Sherlock. He slowly got down on his knees, amazed how even the floor was comfortable, and slowly started to pry the small space open. It was like cork once he wriggled it free, the carpet cut out and then stuck on the top to give the illusion there was nothing there, but there was. John reached inside and pulled out a small black bag. It was leather, smooth, as expensive as everything else Sherlock seemed to own. So he opened it. He really shouldn't have opened it. 

Inside was a small plastic bag, tied at the top with white string that clashed with the green powder inside. John didn't have to open the package to know what it was. He wanted to let the anger consume him. To rant and rave at Sherlock, to cry and move out, to just run away from the issue but also stay and stand over Sherlock like a deranged babysitter, making sure he flushed everything down the toilet and burned anything that power had touched. There was something else inside though, some kind of paper. He placed the plastic bag down by his knee as he slowly pulled the paper out and unfolded it. 

It was the check.

Sherlock still had the check. He had the money this whole time. Why hadn't he cashed it in? Why was he holding on to it? He looked over the paper, again and again. The signature stamped on in Japanese, Sherlock's name written neatly in the top section and the games company logo shadowed in the paper behind it. It was clear Sherlock was a drug addict, he could see the evidence right in front of his face and to have such a convoluted hiding place meant that it must have been a long term thing. How did he miss it? John was a Doctor and a damn good one and yet here he was living with a drug addict and completely unaware of it. So he put the bag away, placed the cork back in the floor and gathered his things. Sherlock was fast asleep on the couch, curled on his side with his back to their armchairs. He looked so peaceful. John almost forgot about his discovery, then he remembered and started getting ready for work.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up guys I've gotten a bit stuck with this so to get over my writer's block and get back into this story I'm take a little break but I haven't stopped writing, I'm updating other story's so you can still see me around. Be prepared for a wait! I'm sorry in advance!


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